


Shoes Series

by hitthehospital



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parent, First Meeting, High School, High School AU, Homophobia, M/M, alternative universe, ballet!lock, rugby!john, teen!lock, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9713516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitthehospital/pseuds/hitthehospital
Summary: Sherlock and John's high school AU series "Shoes" in a single chaptered piece.





	1. Chemistry

John Watson pushed through the cramped corridors of the school, battered rucksack on his back and a swarm of twelve-year-olds at his feet.  
"C10... C10..." he mumbled as he craned his neck to see the numbers on the classroom doors. "C10... C-" Spotting the right room, John battled through the heaving masses, pushing and shoving, until he half-fell into the lab. A room of unfamiliar faces turned to him momentarily, the chatter in the room commencing after a beat.  
John sighed. He ran his fingers through his sandy hair, scanning the room for an empty seat. Two spare chairs. One next to a girl from his English class - Susan or Sarah, something like that. The second next to a boy he could only assume to being alive, despite being pale as death and slumped over a table. There was no question which seat he was going to take.  
"Hi, Susan." John chirped, shaping his mouth into a pleasant smile.  
The girl looked confused at first as John walked towards her. "Me?" she asked, motioning to herself.  
"Yes."  
"Oh! I'm not Susan, I'm Sarah," she beamed back.  
"Sorry, Sarah," John cursed to himself. "Can I please sit in the seat next to you?"  
Her face fell, mild concern wrinkled in her eyebrows. "No, sorry. It's taken."  
"No, no, it's okay!"  
"You sure?"  
"Yeh," John sighed. The boy it was, then.

John approached the desk on the corner, the boy sprawled across the surface, his head of black curls rested on his arm as his long, slender fingers tapped out a beat on the scratched wood. John pulled a stool from under the table. The tapping stopped.  
"Hi, I'm John Watson," he said, shrugging his bag of his shoulders.  
"I know." The finger beats resumed.  
"I'm a new student, recently moved here from-"  
"Colchester."  
"Yeh..." John sighed, with a feeling of dejection.  
The other boy turned his head, his pale eyes skated over him, gaze resting on what John thought was his mouth. The boy lazily turned his head away.  
"How's your brother." It was a statement, not a question, said so nonchalantly that this boy, this lazy, rude boy, could only know something John didn't.  
"My bro-?"  
"-Morning, year 12," a voice sang from the front of the room. John turned his attention forward to see a lanky man in his early fifties standing at the front of the class. "For those who don't know me, I'm Mr Lewis, your new chemistry teacher. I hope you had a pleasanter summer holidays?" He asked, rocking on his heels. "Fun? Well, forget that now. If you thought GCSEs were hard, you have another think coming," he said, causing a symphony of moans and sighs from the room. Lewis clasped his hands together eagerly. "Now, we have a couple of new students starting in our sixth form this year, but your head of year probably introduced you to them, so I'm not going to bother wasting my time with that. Instead, who can tell me what they know about..."  
John tried to listen to Lewis, but was distracted by the other boy's hands. He stopped to glance at them, mesmerised by the fluidity of how they moved when writing, almost like a dance. After too long, John realised that the hands had stopped writing. He sheepishly looked up to their owner, who was gazing back, a small smile on his face. John's cheeks ignited. He threw his sight to his work, hiding the embarrassment and new confusion blooming on his face.  
Lewis's voice once again broke John's line of thought. "Now, year 12, I want you to discuss with a partner how much they understand about the topic after my brief explanation."  
The other boy sat up, turning to John and starting to talk in his ever-bored voice that was really starting to annoy John. "I thought the explana-"  
"-Why did you ask how's your brother?"  
The boy sighed at this, as if the explanation was clear. "Shoes."  
"What?"  
The boy sat forward, cocking his head, assessing John. A cat-like grin spread across his face. He took a breath, as if preparing himself for an onslaught. "Your shoes are new-ish, a bit scuffed, but the rest of your clothes are at least two years old - the trousers older. Yet, these shoes are new, expensive even. Why buy expensive new shoes when you could buy cheaper shoes and new uniform? They're smart, too smart, but more importantly, ill-fitting. Surely if you were to buy costly shoes, you would ensure they would fit. Therefore they are second hand, more likely hand-me-downs, definitely from an older member of the family. These shoes are stylish, young-man's shoes, so are too modern for a father or uncle. They could come from a cousin, but more likely an older brother. But why give you shoes? Obviously he doesn't need them anymore, but why does a young man with, most likely very little money, buy expensive shoes that can't have been worn for say, more than a month? These shoes were bought with the intention of impressing someone, but definitely didn't for very long. If they were to impress a partner, why throw the shoes away? So probably an employer, drawing me to the conclusion that the buyer was fired- but what for? He wouldn't have been hired if he had a bad CV, so must have done something drastic to be fired after a month, so I ask, how's your brother?" The other boy stopped and sat back, a smug smile plastered on his face.  
John slowly blinked at him. The boy grinned back.  
The shrill ringing of the school bell finally jolted John from his silence. "How did you..?" John asked, barely audible over the sound of scraping chairs and conversations.  
The boy stood up, swinging his bag over his back. He stared down at the still-motionless John, before walking toward the door.  
John felt desperation grab hold of him as he shot up, stool clattering to the floor. "Who are you?" He called after him.  
The other boy stopped in the open doorway, turning to John. "The name's Sherlock Holmes," he grinned, winking, before disappearing from view.  
John stood, mouth gaping, staring at the empty doorway, until a hand clapped him on the shoulder. He flinched visibly, cursing himself. A booming voice sounded from behind him, "Are we car-sharing for rugby practise tonight, John?" It was Michael. John turned to face him, quickly composing himself.  
"Uh, yeah, if that's ok Michael?"  
Michael laughed, "Of course, John. And call me Mike, yeah?"  
"Okay," John laughed awkwardly. " Is it alright if I get a lift back as well?"  
Mike's whole face fell, giving John the answer before he even opened his mouth. "I'm sorry, John -"  
"-No! It's okay! I've got bus money."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes, thanks."  
Mike beamed at this, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose in triumph. "Good, good. See you at six o'clock then?"  
John smiled weakly, "Six it is."


	2. Chips

John's new rugby club was like every other one he had been a member. Boys his year and above diving on a cold, muddy pitch to get to the try line; kicking practise, tackling practise; abusive coach, bantering players; every man and boy throwing around their weight to show dominance - you could even smell the testosterone. God, John loved it.  
However, the incident in the Chemistry lab earlier tilted him off his axis, distracting him the whole session.  
When the practise ended, John quickly changed his boots for tattered white daps and hastily walked out of the grounds, toward the bus stop.

The bus stop was only a five minute walk from club, but he almost walked past it. The light in the shelter was off, leaving it a hollow shell. As John leant in closer, he spotted a poster that read, 'Bus Strike: 7th-10th September'. Today was the 9th. John kicked himself. How could he be so stupid? He sighed, long and hard.  
His shoes slapped on the wet pavement as he walked down the ever-darkening street. Street lamps and shop fronts lit the road, the orange and cream light reflecting on the soaked Tarmac and black windows. Alleyways and back streets lay like gaping black holes, tears in the artificially lit world. Cars sped past, spraying John's feet with water. Rain started to drizzle, blanketing him in the cold and the damp. But all he could think about was the strange boy with the pale eyes.  
John continued to walk, not concentrating. It took him too long to realise he didn't recognise his surroundings. That he was lost. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes seemed like the least of his worries.  
John pulled his kit bag closer to his chest and quickened his pace. He needed to find somewhere to stay, at least until he was sure about where he was. The buildings around him were mainly houses, pubs, kebab shops, an old Chinese takeaway. There were so many dark corners, so many places to-  
And then he heard it. A groan. It was probably his mind playing tricks in the dark- but he heard another noise, a shout. To his left. In the alley.  
John slowly turned, facing the dark. He trembled, his legs too weak to run if needed.  
There came another muffled groan. John slowly took his key out of his bag.  
His eyes adjusted to the darkness.  
And only one word could form in his mouth; "Sherlock?"

Sherlock on the floor. Nose bloodied.  
Three men around him. One with blood on his knuckles. Faces contorted with anger.  
They turned to look at John.  
One of the men's faces twisted into a grin. "Is this your boyfriend?" He sneered to Sherlock. The man turned to John, "You a fag like him?"  
John opened his mouth. No words came out.  
"I said, are you with this fag?" He started to walk towards John. John's feet were glued to the floor. His hands shook. He tried to run, tried to speak, tried to run away -  
The man towered above him. "ANSWER ME YOU PUSSY!"  
John felt the impact on his cheek long before he could register what it was. His head hit the Tarmac, sending a second dose of agony shooting through his head. He curled into a ball, shielding his head with his arms. Each kick sent ricochetting pain through his body. He heard someone cry out, someone yell. It could have been him. He didn't know.  
It felt like an eternity until the kicking stopped.  
"John? John?" The voice sounded very far away. "John?"  
Warm hands gently pried his arms away from his head, rolling him onto his back.  
John opened his eyes.  
A blurry image of black and white and blue and red came into to focus.  
"Sherlock?"  
"How many fingers?" Sherlock held a hand in front of John's vision.  
"What?"  
"John," the boy asked sternly. "How many fingers?"  
John squinted. "Three."  
"Good, you don't have concussion." The hand dropped. "With that in mind, do you want to get something to eat?"  
Now John was sure he was hearing things. "What?"  
Sherlock smiled.

The café they sat in was situated 500 meters down the road from where they were attacked, which John thought was a very bad idea. Sherlock defended his choice by stating the café had "great chips".  
John sat in the corner of the room, away from the window, which he did think was a good idea.  
He stared at the checkered linoleum table cloth, his head and ribs still thumping, so many thoughts running through his head-  
A red plastic basket of chips and two cans were dropped on the table, cutting his thinking short. John looked up. Sherlock sat opposite him, blue eyes watching carefully. His nose had swollen.  
"I think you should be more concerned about yourself, Sherlock," John sighed. "You're the one with the broken nose."  
"You're the one with two cracked ribs."  
John chuckled, wincing from the pain in his chest. "Shouldn't we be in A&E?"  
Sherlock smiled softly, sliding a can of lemonade toward him. "Drink it, for the shock."  
"I'm not in shock."  
Sherlock just stared.  
"Fine, I'll drink your bloody lemonade."  
Sherlock sat back and folded his arms, contented, as John took a sip.  
"What the hell was that about in the alley, anyway," John asked, leaning forward.  
Sherlock's eyes skated over him for a couple of seconds, as if he was judging whether John could be trusted. Finally, he took a deep breath, untangling his arms. "I... Dance." He said cautiously.  
That definitely wasn't what John was expecting.  
"I do contemporary mostly, but sometimes tap and ballet. I compete sometimes and..."  
But then again, this explained the fluidity of his movement.  
It took John a while to realise Sherlock had stopped talking and was now scowling at him. "What's that face for?" John asked, confused.  
"There's a reason I don't tell people, John, I just thought you would understand."  
"I- what? I wasn't - I was thinking about..." John sighed. "I was thinking about your... Hands."  
"My... Hands?" Sherlock smirked.  
"Yeh..." John ducked his head.  
Sherlock's chair creaked as he leant forward. "What's so special about my hands, Joh-"  
"-you didn't answer my question."  
Sherlock sighed and sat back again. "The studio I dance in isn't far from that alley you found me in. The men, if we can call them that, were outside. When they saw me leave they decided to shout abuse at me from across the street. I ignored them and carried on walking, only they wouldn't stop," Sherlock's wavered slightly as his mouth dropped. John blinked, and he was smiling again. "Anyway, I turned to them and implied one of them - the one who hit you actually, sorry about that - wasn't being quite truthful about which team he played for." Sherlock grinned, causing John to smirk back.  
John's face fell slightly. "Why you, though?"  
Sherlock laughed bitterly. "You know, male dancer, has to be gay-"  
"-and are you? Which is okay, totally-"  
"-I know it is," Sherlock mumbled, looking toward the café window. He smiled suddenly, turning to John. "I'm sure you know that too, John Watson."  
John felt sick. Surely, he couldn't know- John chuckled cautiously, smarting at his ribs. "I'm not..."  
Sherlock's gaze was steady, face serious. "Hands."  
John swallowed.  
Sherlock sat forward again. "About the deduction earlier, how did I do?"  
"What?"  
Sherlock sighed. "You do like saying that word, don't you - with the shoes, when I asked about your brother."  
"Oh, that," how could he forget that? "Well, I was given the shoes by Harry, and Harry was fired, but..."  
"But what?"  
"Harry is short for Harriet." John smirked.  
Sherlock grinned back. "I always get something wrong."  
"Not too shabby, though."  
"Not too shabby."


	3. Shoe Box

John's eyes opened sleepily.  
Another day.  
He rolled out of bed, his feet landing in the worn carpet.  
John folded his duvet over and tucked the edges under the mattress of his single bed.  
The boy patted across the landing, into the bathroom. He locked the door. The pain in John’s side throbbed with every movement as he undressed. He stepped into the shower, the hot water burning against his cool body.  
Last night seemed like a dream; the blood, the chips, the strange boy...  
John turned the shower off.  
He dried himself, wrapped the towel around his waist, and trotted back to his room.  
Standing in front of the mirror, the repercussions front the night before bloomed on his skin and ribs. He gingerly touched his cheek, flinching. A red bruise flowered on his cheek bone and snaked around his eye socket. John sighed, long and hard.  
Reaching below his tired bed, he pulled out a beaten shoe box. John lifted the lid off, the bed creaking below him as he sat. He tenderly placed the faded and torn photographs of his mother and his sister to his side. Their mouths were pulled into grins, unaware of the coming years. Notes and lines and his mother’s scrawled hand-writing came next as he carefully unpacked his heart. Finally, he found what he was searching for. His sister’s old concealer. Unscrewing the cap, he rose from the bed slowly and slouched toward the mirror. The boy dabbed the concealer around the bruises marking his face, wincing with each touch. He sighed heavily. The make-up was placed back in the box, along with his memories, and placed back into the dust and dark where it now lived.  
John shrugged into his uniform, groaning with each small manoeuvre.  
He grabbed his tatty rucksack and jogged down the stairs. He was halfway across the hall when-  
"What the fuck’re you wearing?”  
John froze. His heart raced.  
"I said, what the fuck’re you wearing?"  
He took a racked breath, flinching from the pain in his side, and turned around cautiously to face the kitchen doorway - turned to face his father.  
The man slouched in a kitchen chair, yesterday’s crinkled shirt sticking to skin, brown bottle in hand.  
"It’s my uniform." John answered warily as he averted his eyes to the checked linoleum floor.  
Mr Watson slammed his hand on the table.  
John's heart skipped. He flicked his eyes back to the man.  
His father's worn face warped with anger.  
"It’s my uniform, sir" the boy whispered.  
The older man’s face relaxed, amusement slipping into his features. “You look like a bender,” he chuckled.  
John’s stomach twisted.  
The man laughed again, staring at the floor for a few seconds before the smile slipped off his face. He took a slow swig from his poison.  
John watched wearily.  
The man lowered the bottle. He sighed heavily before turning to look at his son once again. “Where were you last night?”  
“I was at rugby practice, si-“  
"-Like hell you were- I know when you're lying!"  
"I-"  
"-DO NOT ANSWER BACK!" Mr Watson stood. The wooden chair clattered to the floor. He glared at it. "Look what you've done now." The older man averted his eyes back to John. He stared, too long, as if it was the first time he had seen a creature so strange.  
“What’s that on your face?” He lifted a finger as he prowled closer.  
"Nothing, sir," John breathed, recoiling into himself slightly his father closed in.  
John gasped as the man grabbed his chin, twisting his head sharply to the side. “What is this?”  
John’s lungs felt too tight.  
The man ran his finger, hard, over his son’s face. The boy grimaced. His father stared at the make-up-stained finger, his worn face blank.  
"What the fuck is this?" His voice was too calm.  
“Nothing,” John whimpered. His father’s hand clamped harder on his face.  
“Is this fucking make-up?” His father’s voice was barely a whisper.  
John tried to shake his head, not daring to take his eyes off Mr Watson.  
“Is my son wearing make-up? Like a fucking fag?” The man spat, his breath tinged with the sour scent of alcohol.  
John sobbed, “No, si-“  
His father pushed him against the wall, causing John cry out at the pain in his ribs.  
The older man’s features contorted in fury. He held his finger up to John’s face. “Don’t be such a fucking-“  
-A rapping came from the door.  
His father froze, face still millimetres from John’s.  
The door tapped again.  
The man glared at John. He pushed himself away from the wall and strode to the door. John collapsed against the wall. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, but not before he saw Mr Watson opened the door with a smile.  
"Is this the Watson residence?" A familiar voice cut through the heavy air. But it couldn’t be – not here. John slowly raised his eyes to the doorway.  
"Who are you?" Mr Watson asked, politely.  
"Sherlock." John breathed, eyebrows knitted with confusion.  
Sure enough, the other boy stood on the porch of his house, John’s house. He was too beautiful for this place –his pale skin and floppy black hair too perfect for this world of fade and grey. Sherlock’s sharp eyes flicked from Mr Watson to his friend. "John," he smirked.  
John’s father adjusted his stance, titling his head back slightly. "I asked you a question. Who are you?"  
Sherlock took a quick intake of breath as he peeled his eyes away from John and toward Mr Watson. "Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes, a class mate of John's,” he smiled courteously.  
Mr Watson returned the smile bitterly. "Of course."  
John’s father turned to him, the grin still plastered on his face. "Better go off to school now, John."  
Sherlock turned, walking up the empty driveway to the road. The blond forced a smile as picked up his discarded rucksack and shuffled toward the outside, toward Sherlock. Mr Watson stood in the doorway. As John attempted to pass, he blocked the door way with an arm. The boy averted his eyes to the floor. "I haven't finished with you,” the man hissed in his ear, causing John to cringe away slightly. His father dropped the barrier. John hurried out.  
Sherlock waited on the street, beaming. "Come on John, hurry up!"  
John sighed, walking past the other boy. "I'm not feeling that good right now, Sherlock, so please don't."  
Sherlock jogged to catch up, the grin now a permanent fixture. "I know," he continued.  
"Then wh-"  
"Just laugh like I said something funny," Sherlock interjected.  
"Wh-"  
"John." He smiled and, for reasons beyond his knowledge, John followed suit. John laughed, beguiled by the other boy’s charm. "Why are we doing this, Sherlock?" John asked through his teeth.  
Sherlock didn’t answer as they walked around the corner of the road. Sherlock stops, gently grabbing John's hand, halting him. The other boy’s long fingers felt so good in his. John turned to him. "Sher-?"  
"Are you okay?" He interjected, startling John.  
"What? I-"  
Sherlock carefully holds the blond’s face in his slender hands, examining it. John’s stomach flips – the other boy was just inches away-  
"Did he hit you?" Sherlock asked, shocking John into confusion.  
"What're-"  
"-Did. He. Hit. You?" Sherlock fussed, more sternly this time.  
Realisation dawned on John.  
"What the fuck? No!" John protested, pushing away from the other boy.  
Sherlock let go of his face, sighing. He ran his hands through his dark hair and started to pace. "Okay, well..."  
"Where the hell did you get that?" John seethed, voice dangerously quiet.  
The boy didn’t respond. John boiled.  
"Why the fuck d’you think that?"  
Sherlock wouldn’t stop moving.  
"You've made it worse, y'know." John growls.  
The other boy stopped.  
"See you in chemistry." Sherlock smiled, shortly and sadly, at him. It was such a small, pitiful thing, leaving John sick inside.  
"Sherlock-" John breathed with unease, moving toward him.  
Sherlock turned away, pulling his blazer around him, and strode, hunched, away from John.  
The putrid anger bubbled and steamed until John exploded, rage screaming out of him. He yelled, kicking the wall in his fury. He yelled until there was no air left in his lungs.


	4. Cold-War

The rest of the day was a blur. Lessons merged into each other. The clock moved too slow and too fast all at once. Conversations sounded like they were under water, people floated by. Every second counted down to chemistry - to Sherlock.  
The conversation from that morning looped in his mind like a broken record as he entered the chemistry class. John lingered in the doorway, hesitant. He scanned the classroom cautiously for Sherlock. His stomach flipped when he saw the other boy, black-mopped head on the table and fingers outstretched - it was almost as if John's life rewound twenty-four hours. He took a deep breath, adjusted his bag, and stepped into the room.

The boy didn't move when John sat down - he simply lay slumped on the desk with his back to his classmate.  
"Sherlock?" John asked, apprehensive of the boy's answer.  
No reply.  
John frowned - after all he'd said that day and Sherlock, the arrogant sod, wasn't even going to listen.  
"Sher-" John leant forward, lowering his voice. "Look, I know you can hear me-"  
Sherlock lifted his head slightly and turning to John before looking away quickly.  
Unbelievable.  
"For God's sake, you are ridiculous, I-"  
"-Good afternoon, class," Mr Lewis chirped as he entered the classroom, hand raised in a welcoming salute. John sat back with a huff. "Sorry I'm late, I had a run-in with the head of department to discuss how we will measure your progress throughout the year," the man explained as he shrugged off his beaten duffle bag, throwing it on his chair.  
John's fingers tapped his crossed arms in agitation at the other boy.  
"Now," Lewis continued, de-capping a white board pen, "I said to Dr Tasker that I preferred to measure your progress through your books. However, Dr Tasker said she'd prefer..."  
John's jaw clenched. He could take it anymore. He leant forward toward Sherlock again, hissing under Lewis. "Listen, just answer one question-"  
"-John Watson!" The booming voice from the front of the class shocked John to attention. "I know you are new to this school, but that does not give you the right to talk in my lesson. As for you, William," -William?- "you should already know the repercussions of talking in class. Now sit up."  
Sherlock slowly pushed himself up off the desk and sat, limp and scowling, glaring at Mr Lewis.  
William?  
Despite his anger John leant over to Sherlock. "Why did he call you William?" John whispered.  
"Because it's my name," the other boy mumbled with disgust. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes. My mother has tediously boring taste in baby names - my brothers' got all the good ones."  
John shook his head in disbelief. "You are totally ridiculous."  
Sherlock broke his stare-of-infinite-hate and looked at John quizzically.  
"Sherlock. That's the name you pick?" John asked, smile blooming on his face.  
Sherlock frowned. "Yes. What's wrong with that?"  
John laughed. "You are the most ridiculous human being I have ever met."  
Sherlock smiled at this - a small, smug smile that made John's lungs contract. The heavy air between them was palpable. "The most ridiculous?"  
John swallowed. "By far."  
"William and John, for the last time! Stop talking!" Mr Lewis yelled as he broke the spell, causing John to duck his head to hide the grin on his face. Beside him Sherlock chuckled. Mr Lewis turned back to the board just as Sherlock leant to John.  
"I have dance practise today after school if you want to come."  
"Yes," John replied, maybe a bit too eagerly.  
Sherlock's smile widened at this. "Good."  
"WILLIAM HOLMES, PICK UP YOUR BAG AND MOVE TO THE FRONT OF THE CLASS!" Lewis screamed.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he slipped off his stool and sulkily dragged his bag across the floor to the front of the class. He flopped dramatically onto the empty seat into the front of the class.  
Lewis' ears steamed as he glared at Sherlock, his high stress levels obvious even to John. The black-haired boy stared icily back.  
Lewis broke first, tearing his eyes from the pupil and to the rest of the class. John let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, relieved the classroom-equivalent of the cold-war was quickly disarmed.  
He was making friends with the wrong sort of people.  
Sherlock turned around to John, a sly smile on his face and a question in the raise of his eyebrows. John's heart skipped a beat.  
There was no way he was going to say no to this boy.


	5. Yellow

Two boys stood together under the bus stop, the yellow-green light that tinged the air a promise of rain. The taller boy was ethereal in the glow, causing the smaller boy to stare a bit too long. The first boy noticed. The second boy looked down to the ground and toed the pavement with his hand-me-down shoes. He swallowed. John pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, the autumnal air bit his finger tips. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it after a moment's thought. He instead lock his gaze ahead.

The bus crept through the traffic, its display lights just visible over a forthcoming van. John checked his bag for his wallet, half-emptying it in the quickening desperate search.  
The bus was only meters away.  
He found it lodged between two folders at the bottom of the bag.  
The bus pulled up beside them.  
John frantically counted his change. 30p short. Fuck.  
Sherlock, meanwhile, casually swiped a £5 note from his pocket and strode in front of John and grabbing his hand before handing the driver the fare. John's face ignited.  
"Two singles to the city centre."  
The driver looked momentarily confused until he noted the boys' hands and John's crimson cheeks. "For you and your boyfriend?" The older man asked cautiously. Sherlock just stared. The driver looked away nervously and started to type in the order with large fingers. The ticket machine whirred as it printed out the tickets, then a shhhhhrppp as they were ripped from the device and handed to the strange pair.  
Sherlock walked toward the end of the bus, John's hand still in his. The blond managed a quick mumble of "he's not my boyfriend" to the driver before he was tugged along. Sherlock dragged the other boy to the second-last row, taking the window seat. He released John's hand, the lack of pressure on his palm made the blond feel empty. He dumped his satchel on the seat in front of him and rested his feet on the back of the chair. John carefully placed his rucksack in front of his feet.  
Sherlock looked out of the murky window, his leg bounced restlessly. The boy's eyes skated back and forth, back and forth across the moving scene outside.  
John trailed his eyes over Sherlock's hands. His own palm still burned from the touch. He flicked his gaze away from the other boy and toward his beat-up shoes. A soft sigh escaped his lips. What am I doing?  
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. John looked across the bus and met a pair of warm grey eyes. The girl tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and smiled mischievously. John, to his surprise, grinned back. The girl laughed quietly and shook her head. John shifted his body and straightened his spine, sitting up in the old bus seat. She looked back at him for a second, before reaching into her smart leather satchel. Pulling out a pen, she scribbled on her ticket as she leant on her bare knee. John stared. With a flick of her wrist, she handed the note to him.  
The bus began to squeak to a stop. The girl rose up, swung her satchel over her shoulder, and winked at John. His eyebrows raised as she strutted off the bus.  
As the bus pulled off, John looked down at the note in his hand. Blue biro formed perfectly shaped numbers of the waxy paper in a line and an equally neat name beneath. It took him a half second to realise that it was the eleven digits of a phone number. He reread the ticket. The four letters of the name imprinted on his brain. Mary.  
"You can shut you mouth now, John. You look like a goldfish."  
The bitter voice knocked John out of the spell. He looked up. A scowling Sherlock looked down.  
John felt a rush of embarrassment heat his face. His stomach turned. An unsettlingly familiar emotion weighed down on him. Why do I feel guilty?  
Sherlock snatched the number off him and held it up to the window.  
"Don't bother." The brunette tossed the ticket back to John and drew his knees up to his chin, scowl still etched on his face.  
"Don't bother with what?" John frowned.  
"The note."  
"What?"  
Sherlock looked down at the ticket in John's hand. "Her writing. Look at it."  
John raised his eyebrows and turned in his seat. His fingers tapped the paper. He scrunched his nose. "Blue biro... uh... quite angular letters..." He swallowed. "I'm... I'm not sure."  
His deep blue eyes trailed to met Sherlock's ice.  
"Yes, but what does the biro say about her."  
John's brow creased. He looked back at the ticket. "Well... she took it out of her bag. I think it was out of a pencil case?"  
"A clear one - only blue pens and lead pencils."  
"Right. And it was... organised..." He thought for a second. "Isn't - isn't blue supposed to be the best colour for memory? So she's practical... and works hard - but also smart to know that. So... smart, organised, works hard... Is that right?"  
He was met with silence. John's eyes swept upwards.  
Sherlock's mouth was pulled up in a small, private smile. In a second, it was gone. The brunet blinked quickly. "I um - yes that's - that's per- right. That's right."  
John smirked slightly.  
The bus slowed and stopped. "This is our stop."  
The two boys stood.  
"You did well, but forgot some key things."  
"Do go on."  
John thanked the driver for the both of them as they stepped off the bus.  
"Well, according to Andrea McNicol's graphology handbook, the type of handwriting you have can say a lot about you as a person." Sherlock pulled out the ticket from John's coat pocket. "See the heaviness of the pen mark on the paper? It shows she can be uptight but the speed in which she wrote the note says she's impatient and dislikes delays and time wasters." The pair walked briskly down the street as Sherlock talked and John listened intently. "The narrow loop on the 'a' also implies she is skeptical of other people and doesn't want to be swayed by the emotions of them. All in all, not someone I would recommend sharing romantic entanglements with."  
John smiled. "Romantic entanglement?"  
Sherlock frowned, "yes."  
The blond laughed. "You ever been in a 'romantic entanglement?"  
"What?!"  
John chuckled awkwardly. He swallowed. "You ever had a... boyfriend then?" His heart felt like it was about to be ripped out of his chest.  
Sherlock's mouth opened and closed. He thought for a second. A soft "No" escaped his lips. The brunet looked down.  
The two boys walked in a heavy silence for the next few minutes, but to John it felt a lifetime.  
Sherlock slowed when they passed an old studio. The puddles from the night before held an image of the studio lights in it's clasp. Sherlock led John down the alley way, to a door.  
"Well, here we are." Sherlock smiled quickly.  
Here we are.


	6. Guide

The door swung open. John peered inside.The hall was grotty, the cream painted brick walls lead up a flight of stairs 10 meters in front. The only light was from the open door.  
"It's the fire escape for the studio," Sherlock explained. He looked down at John and smiled nervously. "Follow me."  
The two boys entered, the taller one walking confidently forward whilst the other hovered behind tentatively. The door slammed behind them, plunging the hall into darkness. John blinked, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark.  
The blond was startled when a slender hand slipped into his.  
"It's only me." He heard the familiar voice and relaxed. "The lights in the hall have been broken for a while now - they never seem to get round to fixing them." John could almost see the irritated expression on Sherlock's face.   
He smiled softly.  
Sherlock continued. "My phone torch broke thanks to some idiots the other night," John could feel Sherlock grinning in the darkness and the smaller boy couldn't help but chuckle. "I know you don't have a smart phone so I'll just lead you up the stairs."  
The pair stood for a second, John's hand in Sherlock's. John's heart beat was deafening.  
Sherlock broke the silence. "I'm um... I'm going to need to put my..." He stopped. "I'm going to have to guide you.... do you mind if I..." He cautiously placed his hand on the other boy's hip. John's breath hitched in his throat. Sherlock jumped back. "I won't do that.   
I'll find another way, I -"  
"It's fine." John swallowed. "I need to get up these bloody stairs anyway."  
"Okay."  
Sherlock let his hands rest on John's hip and arms once more. John wills his heart to slow down. He breathes.  
The two boys shuffle into the darkness, the taller boy guiding his friend's body. John's foot hit the bottom step and he stumbled. Sherlock's fingers gripped him tightly. "Are you okay?"  
"Yeh... yeh thanks."  
"Good." Sherlock tugged him slightly. The two started up the stairs.  
John was so conscious of Sherlock's touch, he dared not breathe.  
Although there was only one flight, the ascent felt like it took a lifetime.  
When they finally reached the top of the stairs Sherlock let John out of his grasp, leaving the smaller boy feeling vulnerable. John clutched his bag strap. He heard a bang and started.   
"What the fuck was that?" He hissed.  
The taller boy's voice came from the darkness. "Nothing - just opening the door."  
"By kicking it down?"  
"You just have to open it a certain way..." Clank. "There we go."  
The door swung open, sending light streaming into the hallway.  
John squinted.  
"Why didn't we go through the front door?"  
"Well, the building isn't technically open until another hour," Sherlock picked up his satchel. "So we broke in."  
John froze. "Jesus, Sherlock! That's illegal."  
Sherlock looked back at him and shrugged. "You coming?"  
The blond sighed. "Yes."   
The pair walked forward. "Well, I've got to change. The studio is down the hall to the right." He turned and started to stride the opposite way down the corridor.  
"Sherlock," John hissed. "I don't like this."  
"You'll be fine." He yanked open another door. "I've done this loads."   
And with that he was gone.  
John huffed. What was he getting himself into?  
He dragged his rucksack across the wood-panelled floor, his shoes clipping as he walked. He pushed open the door at the end of the corridor, grimacing at peeling paint. How is this place still open?  
The door creaked open and John slipped inside.  
The studio was surprisingly okay. Light streamed in from the tall windows, dust motes suspended in the rays.  
John's footfalls echoed on the sprung floor as he skirted the edge of the white room. He slid down the mirrored wall, landing on the wood floor with a slight bump. The blond sighed. He closed his eyes.  
John's eyes flicked back open when the door creaked. Sherlock stood before him, his uniform swapped for a white t-shirt and black leggings.  
The brunette smirked at John, before turning and slinking to the other corner, satchel in hand. He crouched next to the stereo speaker. His delicate fingers carefully drew a CD from his bag and placed it in the player. Sherlock's eyes skirted back to John quickly. He pressed play. The machine whirred as it found the tracker. The boy made his way to the centre of the room and stood, eyes closed, waiting for the music to begin.  
A violin sighed through the silence. Sherlock slowly extended his arm above his head and lowered it down, his gaze following his finger tips. He flicked his gaze over to the other boy and smiled softly. John deflated at that tender look.  
With each graceful movement, the blond was drawn into the narrative of motion, pulled deeper under. As the music crescendoed, the realisation dawned on him that no matter how wrong it was, no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he was infatuated with this strange boy.   
The violin sang one last sorrowful note, and Sherlock locked eyes with his counterpart. He lowered his arms. "Well, there it is. It's not the best I've performed it, I mean there were some major-"  
"-that was amazing."  
The brunette blinked quickly, stunned by the comment. "Really?"  
"That was the best I've seen," John exclaimed. "I mean, I haven't seen much but I-"  
"-do you want to see another?" The boy waited nervously for John's confirmation, rocking slightly in his black ballet shoes.  
"Oh, God yes."  
The two smiled.  
John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes.

 


End file.
